Добавил:
ivanov666
Опубликованный материал нарушает ваши авторские права? Сообщите нам.
Вуз:
Предмет:
Файл:The Road
.pdf
THE ROAD
I should fi nd my next meal. And all the while, like a death’shead at the feast, silent and motionless, her own unfortunate
boy sat and stared at me across the table. I suppose I represented to him mystery, and romance, and adventure – all that was
denied the feeble fl icker of life that was in him. And yet I could
not forbear, once or twice, from wondering if he saw through
me down to the bottom of my mendacious heart.
“But where are you going to?” she asked me.
“Salt Lake City,” said I. “I have a sister there – a married
sister.” (I debated if I should make a Mormon out of her, and
decided against it.) “Her husband is a plumber – a contracting
plumber.”
Now I knew that contracting plumbers were usually credited with making lots of money. But I had spoken. It was up to
me to qualify.
“They would have sent me the money for my fare if I had
asked for it,” I explained, “but they have had sickness and
business troubles. His partner cheated him. And so I wouldn’t
write for the money. I knew I could make my way there somehow. I let them think I had enough to get me to Salt Lake City.
She is lovely, and so kind. She was always kind to me. I guess
I’ll go into the shop and learn the trade. She has two daughters. They are younger than I. One is only a baby.”
Of all my married sisters that I have distributed among
the cities of the United States, that Salt Lake sister is my favorite. She is quite real, too. When I tell about her, I can see
her, and her two little girls, and her plumber husband. She is
a large, motherly woman, just verging on benefi cent stoutness – the kind, you know, that always cooks nice things and
21
JACK LONDON
that never gets angry. She is a brunette. Her husband is a quiet,
easy-going fellow. Sometimes I almost know him quite well.
And who knows but some day I may meet him? If that aged
sailorman could remember Billy Harper, I see no reason why
I should not some day meet the husband of my sister who
lives in Salt Lake City.
On the other hand, I have a feeling of certitude within me
that I shall never meet in the fl esh my many parents and grandparents – you see, I invariably killed them off. Heart disease
was my favorite way of getting rid of my mother, though on occasion I did away with her by means of consumption, pneumonia, and typhoid fever. It is true, as the Winnipeg policemen
will attest, that I have grandparents living in England; but that
was a long time ago and it is a fair assumption that they are
dead by now. At any rate, they have never written to me.
I hope that woman in Reno will read these lines and forgive me my gracelessness and unveracity. I do not apologize,
for I am unashamed. It was youth, delight in life, zest for experience, that brought me to her door. It did me good. It taught
me the intrinsic kindliness of human nature. I hope it did her
good. Anyway, she may get a good laugh out of it now that she
learns the real inwardness of the situation.
To her my story was “true.” She believed in me and all my
family, and she was fi lled with solicitude for the dangerous
journey I must make ere I won to Salt Lake City. This solicitude
nearly brought me to grief. Just as I was leaving, my arms full of
lunch and my pockets bulging with fat woollen socks, she bethought herself of a nephew, or uncle, or relative of some sort,
who was in the railway mail service, and who, moreover, would
22
THE ROAD
come through that night on the very train on which I was going to steal my ride. The very thing! She would take me down to
the depot, tell him my story, and get him to hide me in the mail
car. Thus, without danger or hardship, I would be carried
straight through to Ogden. Salt Lake City was only a few miles
farther on. My heart sank. She grew excited as she developed
the plan and with my sinking heart I had to feign unbounded
gladness and enthusiasm at this solution of my diffi culties.
Solution! Why I was bound west that night, and here was I being trapped into going east. It was a trap, and I hadn’t the heart to
tell her that it was all a miserable lie. And while I made believe
that I was delighted, I was busy cudgelling my brains for some
way to escape. But there was no way. She would see me into
the mail-car – she said so herself – and then that mail-clerk relative of hers would carry me to Ogden. And then I would have to
beat my way back over all those hundreds of miles of desert.
But luck was with me that night. Just about the time she
was getting ready to put on her bonnet and accompany me, she
discovered that she had made a mistake. Her mail-clerk relative was not scheduled to come through that night. His run
had been changed. He would not come through until two
nights afterward. I was saved, for of course my boundless youth
would never permit me to wait those two days. I optimistically
assured her that I’d get to Salt Lake City quicker if I started immediately, and I departed with her blessings and best wishes
ringing in my ears.
But those woollen socks were great. I know. I wore a pair of
them that night on the blind baggage of the overland, and that
overland went west.
Holding Her Down
Barring accidents, a good hobo, with youth and agility, can
hold a train down despite all the efforts of the train-crew to
“ditch” him – given, of course, night-time as an essential condition. When such a hobo, under such conditions, makes up
his mind that he is going to hold her down, either he does
hold her down, or chance trips him up. There is no legitimate
way, short of murder, whereby the train-crew can ditch him.
That train-crews have not stopped short of murder is a current belief in the tramp world. Not having had that particular
experience in my tramp days I cannot vouch for it personally.
But this I have heard of the “bad” roads. When a tramp
has “gone underneath,” on the rods, and the train is in motion, there is apparently no way of dislodging him until
the train stops. The tramp, snugly ensconced inside the truck,
with the four wheels and all the framework around him, has
the “cinch” on the crew – or so he thinks, until some day he
rides the rods on a bad road. A bad road is usually one on which
a short time previously one or several trainmen have been
killed by tramps. Heaven pity the tramp who is caught “underneath” on such a road – for caught he is, though the train
be going sixty miles an hour.
24
THE ROAD
The “shack” (brakeman) takes a coupling-pin and
a length of bell-cord to the platform in front of the truck in
which the tramp is riding. The shack fastens the couplingpin to the bell-cord, drops the former down between the platforms, and pays out the latter. The coupling-pin strikes the ties
between the rails, rebounds against the bottom of the car, and
again strikes the ties. The shack plays it back and forth, now to
this side, now to the other, lets it out a bit and hauls it in a bit,
giving his weapon opportunity for every variety of impact and
rebound. Every blow of that fl ying coupling-pin is freighted
with death, and at sixty miles an hour it beats a veritable tattoo of death. The next day the remains of that tramp are gathered up along the right of way, and a line in the local paper
mentions the unknown man, undoubtedly a tramp, assumably
drunk, who had probably fallen asleep on the track.
As a characteristic illustration of how a capable hobo can
hold her down, I am minded to give the following experience. I was in Ottawa, bound west over the Canadian Pacifi c.
Three thousand miles of that road stretched before me; it was
the fall of the year, and I had to cross Manitoba and the Rocky
Mountains. I could expect “crimpy” weather, and every moment of delay increased the frigid hardships of the journey.
Furthermore, I was disgusted. The distance between Montreal
and Ottawa is one hundred and twenty miles. I ought to know,
for I had just come over it and it had taken me six days. By mistake I had missed the main line and come over a small “jerk”
with only two locals a day on it. And during these six days
I had lived on dry crusts, and not enough of them, begged from
the French peasants.
25
JACK LONDON
Furthermore, my disgust had been heightened by the one
day I had spent in Ottawa trying to get an outfi t of clothing
for my long journey. Let me put it on record right here that
Ottawa, with one exception, is the hardest town in the United
States and Canada to beg clothes in; the one exception is Washington, D.C. The latter fair city is the limit. I spent two weeks
there trying to beg a pair of shoes, and then had to go on to
Jersey City before I got them.
But to return to Ottawa. At eight sharp in the morning I started out after clothes. I worked energetically all day.
I swear I walked forty miles. I interviewed the housewives of
a thousand homes. I did not even knock off work for dinner.
And at six in the afternoon, after ten hours of unremitting and
depressing toil, I was still shy one shirt, while the pair of trousers I had managed to acquire was tight and, moreover, was
showing all the signs of an early disintegration.
At six I quit work and headed for the railroad yards, expecting to pick up something to eat on the way. But my hard
luck was still with me. I was refused food at house after house.
Then I got a “hand-out.” My spirits soared, for it was the largest hand-out I had ever seen in a long and varied experience.
It was a parcel wrapped in newspapers and as big as a mature
suit-case. I hurried to a vacant lot and opened it. First, I saw
cake, then more cake, all kinds and makes of cake, and then
some. It was all cake. No bread and butter with thick fi rm
slices of meat between – nothing but cake; and I who of all
things abhorred cake most! In another age and clime they
sat down by the waters of Babylon and wept. And in a vacant
lot in Canada’s proud cap ital, I, too, sat down and wept ... over
26
THE ROAD
a mountain of cake. As one looks upon the face of his dead son,
so looked I upon that multitudinous pastry. I suppose I was
an ungrateful tramp, for I refused to partake of the bounteousness of the house that had had a party the night before.
Evidently the guests hadn’t liked cake either.
That cake marked the crisis in my fortunes. Than it nothing could be worse; therefore things must begin to mend. And
they did. At the very next house I was given a “set-down.” Now
a “set-down” is the height of bliss. One is taken inside, very often is given a chance to wash, and is then “set-down” at a table.
Tramps love to throw their legs under a table. The house was
large and comfortable, in the midst of spacious grounds and
fi ne trees, and sat well back from the street. They had just fi nished eating, and I was taken right into the dining room – in
itself a most unusual happening, for the tramp who is lucky
enough to win a set-down usually receives it in the kitchen.
A grizzled and gracious Englishman, his matronly wife, and
a beautiful young Frenchwoman talked with me while I ate.
I wonder if that beautiful young Frenchwoman would remember, at this late day, the laugh I gave her when I uttered
the barbaric phrase, “two-bits.” You see, I was trying delicately to hit them for a “light piece.” That was how the sum of money came to be mentioned. “What?” she said. “Two-bits,” said
I. Her mouth was twitching as she again said, “What?” “Twobits,” said I. Whereat she burst into laughter. “Won’t you repeat
it?” she said, when she had regained control of herself. “Twobits,” said I. And once more she rippled into uncontrollable
silvery laughter. “I beg your pardon,” said she; “but what ... what
was it you said?” “Two-bits,” said I; “is there anything wrong
27
JACK LONDON
about it?” “Not that I know of,” she gurgled between gasps;
“but what does it mean?” I explained, but I do not remember
now whether or not I got that two-bits out of her; but I have
often wondered since as to which of us was the provincial.
When I arrived at the depot, I found, much to my disgust,
a bunch of at least twenty tramps that were waiting to ride
out the blind baggages of the overland. Now two or three
tramps on the blind baggage are all right. They are inconspicuous. But a score! That meant trouble. No train-crew would
ever let all of us ride.
I may as well explain here what a blind baggage is. Some
mail-cars are built without doors in the ends; hence, such
a car is “blind.” The mail-cars that possess end doors, have
those doors always locked. Suppose, after the train has started,
that a tramp gets on to the platform of one of these blind cars.
There is no door, or the door is locked. No conductor or brakeman can get to him to collect fare or throw him off. It is clear
that the tramp is safe until the next time the train stops. Then
he must get off, run ahead in the darkness, and when the train
pulls by, jump on to the blind again. But there are ways and
ways, as you shall see.
When the train pulled out, those twenty tramps swarmed
upon the three blinds. Some climbed on before the train had
run a car-length. They were awkward dubs, and I saw their
speedy fi nish. Of course, the train-crew was “on,” and at
the fi rst stop the trouble began. I jumped off and ran forward
along the track. I noticed that I was accompanied by a number of the tramps. They evidently knew their business. When
one is beating an overland, he must always keep well ahead of
28
THE ROAD
the train at the stops. I ran ahead, and as I ran, one by one
those that accompanied me dropped out. This dropping out
was the measure of their skill and nerve in boarding a train.
For this is the way it works. When the train starts, the shack
rides out the blind. There is no way for him to get back into
the train proper except by jumping off the blind and catching
a platform where the car-ends are not “blind.” When the train
is going as fast as the shack cares to risk, he therefore jumps off
the blind, lets several cars go by, and gets on to the train. So it
is up to the tramp to run so far ahead that before the blind is
opposite him the shack will have already vacated it.
I dropped the last tramp by about fi fty feet, and waited.
The train started. I saw the lantern of the shack on the fi rst
blind. He was riding her out. And I saw the dubs stand forlornly
by the track as the blind went by. They made no attempt to get
on. They were beaten by their own ineffi ciency at the very start.
After them, in the line-up, came the tramps that knew a little
something about the game. They let the fi rst blind, occupied by
the shack, go by, and jumped on the second and third blinds.
Of course, the shack jumped off the fi rst and on to the second as
it went by, and scrambled around there, throwing off the men
who had boarded it. But the point is that I was so far ahead
that when the fi rst blind came opposite me, the shack had already left it and was tangled up with the tramps on the second
blind. A half dozen of the more skilful tramps, who had run far
enough ahead, made the fi rst blind, too.
At the next stop, as we ran forward along the track, I counted but fi fteen of us. Five had been ditched. The weeding-out
process had begun nobly, and it continued station by station.
29
JACK LONDON
Now we were fourteen, now twelve, now eleven, now nine,
now eight. It reminded me of the ten little niggers of the nursery rhyme. I was resolved that I should be the last little nigger of all. And why not? Was I not blessed with strength, agility, and youth? (I was eighteen, and in perfect condition.) And
didn’t I have my “nerve” with me? And furthermore, was I not
a tramp-royal? Were not these other tramps mere dubs and
“gay-cats” and amateurs alongside of me? If I weren’t the last
little nigger, I might as well quit the game and get a job on
an alfalfa farm somewhere.
By the time our number had been reduced to four, the whole
train-crew had become interested. From then on it was a contest of skill and wits, with the odds in favor of the crew. One by
one the three other survivors turned up missing, until I alone
remained. My, but I was proud of myself! No Croesus was ever
prouder of his fi rst million. I was holding her down in spite of
two brakemen, a conductor, a fi reman, and an engineer.
And here are a few samples of the way I held her down. Out
ahead, in the darkness, – so far ahead that the shack riding out
the blind must perforce get off before it reaches me, – I get on.
Very well. I am good for another station. When that station is
reached, I dart ahead again to repeat the manoeuvre. The train
pulls out. I watch her coming. There is no light of a lantern on
the blind. Has the crew abandoned the fi ght? I do not know.
One never knows, and one must be prepared every moment
for anything. As the fi rst blind comes opposite me, and I run to
leap aboard, I strain my eyes to see if the shack is on the platform. For all I know he may be there, with his lantern doused,
and even as I spring upon the steps that lantern may smash
30
Соседние файлы в предмете [НЕСОРТИРОВАННОЕ]